


Symbology

by leupagus



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Illnesses, M/M, Making Fun of Dan Brown, Sleepytime Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus
Summary: "David, I’m sick, not five, okay?" Patrick’s pout indicates otherwise, but they had a frank conversation about anything they might want to try and ageplay was a firmnofor both of them, thank God. "I don’t need a bedtime story and a cup of Sleepytime."The tone’s peevish, but David can’t help smiling anyway. "God, that was your childhood, wasn’t it? Your mom making you a little cup of tea and your dad reading you a bedtime story—""For your information, it was mydadwho made the tea and Mom read the story."
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 24
Kudos: 298





	Symbology

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whetherwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman/gifts).



> For whetherwoman, who hates Dan Brown and being sick in equal measures.

"I hate being sick," Patrick says, for what’s got to be at least the seventeenth time today. "There’s so much I’d rather be doing than sleeping."

David settles himself a little more comfortably in bed, curling his arm around Patricks shoulders and trying not to clench. He’s been stuck on this same page for what feels like the past hour, while Patrick thrashes and grumbles next to him. "Mkay, but you’re not to be doing _any_ of those things until you _do_ sleep, honey. So why not just close your eyes while I read and—"

"David, I’m sick, not five, okay?" Patrick’s pout indicates otherwise, but they had a frank conversation about anything they might want to try and ageplay was a firm _no_ for both of them, thank God. "I don’t need a bedtime story and a cup of Sleepytime."

The tone’s peevish, but David can’t help smiling anyway. "God, that was your childhood, wasn’t it? Your mom making you a little cup of tea and your dad reading you a bedtime story—"

"For your information, it was my _dad_ who made the tea and Mom read the story." Patrick shifts again, punching at his pillow with a lot of vigor, and David swings his legs off the bed. "Where are you going?" Patrick demands with flattering whininess.

"To make you some tea, honey," he says, "And then I’ll read you a bedtime story."

"I thought we agreed that this _wasn’t_ a fetish for either of us," Patrick grumbles, but he starts another coughing fit and so David can safely ignore him as he gets the kettle going and takes out the honey. "I don’t _want_ honey," is the next grumble.

"It’s good for your throat, because between the coughing and the mucus… situation that you have at present, you sound like you deep-throated a rhino," David calls back over his shoulder. He gets a _hmph_ this time, which is victory enough for him.

Once the tea is done steeping and David’s back in bed with his own cup, Patrick glowers at the book in David’s lap. "Please tell me you’re not going to read me _that_ ," he says.

"What’s wrong with _The DaVinci Code_?" David asks, all affronted innocence. There is, in fact, quite a lot wrong with _The DaVinci Code_ , but Stevie had bet him he couldn’t read the whole thing in less than a week. "Mostly because you’ll be busy defacing it," she’d added.

"Excuse me, I’m Jewish, we don’t do that to the written word," he’d retorted.

"So who was it in that leopard print sweatshirt last Thursday throwing that James Patterson thriller in the trash? Your doppleganger? Long-lost twin?"

In the present, Patrick transfers his glower to David. "How would you like the list categorized?" he demands, struggling to sit up — ostensibly to make his argument, but David knows him well enough to guess that it’s just to sip his tea easier. Sure enough, he takes a sip and makes a face. "Ugh, it’s too sweet."

David leans over and pecks him on the lips. "Mm, disagree."

A few years ago — before Patrick, before Schitt’s Creek and sharing his toothpaste and cuticle cream and peanut butter jars with another person — he’d have sooner donned a hazmat suit than get within a hundred feet of anyone diseased. But he’s already gone through this particular plague last week.

And there’s something tender in his heart whenever Patrick Brewer, sensible and stern and so often the anchor to his storm-tossed sailboat, gets reduced to a cantankerous mess.

A cantankerous mess who missed his calling as a literary critic, judging by the running commentary Patrick keeps up through the rest of his tea and for a good fifteen minutes beyond, as he slumps lower and lower into the pillows, his breathing evening out just as David gets to the frankly disturbing self-flagellation scene. "I don’t think we talked about it, but I’m not into _this_ , either, honey," David adds before Patrick’s snores alert him to the fact that he’s finally passed out.

The next day doesn’t see a big improvement — Patrick’s still coughing and unable to breathe through his nose, rejecting any food that isn’t plain toast — and David spends yet another day traipsing between the store and the apartment, checking to make sure the love of his life hasn’t drowned in his own snot. By bedtime, David’s tired enough to just go right to sleep, but Patrick blinks at him and croaks, "so what about my bedtime story?"

So he climbs back out of bed and makes more tea, and they settle in for what is possibly gross defamation of Dan Brown’s character as they snicker through another chapter. At one point Patrick paws at the book, mumbling something about how Dan Brown needed an editor who wasn’t obviously high, but David manages to keep it away from him. Barely.

When he wakes up, Patrick’s _still_ coughing, so there’s some emphatic communication about how if he’s not improved by tomorrow they’re going to the Elmdale clinic, which David wins by dint of threatening to withhold tea and Dan Brown (and also sex, but Patrick’s really in no shape anyhow and that’s just punishing himself really) until he gets compliance.

He’s punished for his hubris, however, because when he comes back home for lunch, he finds Patrick sitting on the couch, looking at least 50% less snot-ridden and 35% more alert — but in his hands is _The DaVinci Code_. Or rather, in one hand is _The DaVinci Code_ ; in the other hand is his favorite red pen.

"Okay, as much as I admire your zest for copywriting, that’s not, in fact, my copy," David says, trying to keep the horror out of his voice but clearly unable to keep it off his face, if Patrick’s smile is anything to go by.

"I’ll buy Stevie a new one," he promises. "There’s an its/it’s problem on this page that cannot be allowed to stand, David."

"Oh, well in that case," David huffs, but he goes to make Patrick some tea. With extra honey, this time.


End file.
